


Crimson and White

by scarrletmoon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:59:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarrletmoon/pseuds/scarrletmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After two years, John receives an impossible text.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crimson and White

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I ever wrote for this fandom. After watching the infamous season 2 finale, I had to write something to get over it, so this little one-shot happened.
> 
> Granted, I won't actually be over it until season 3. 
> 
> To those of you reading this post-season 3, I am extremely jealous; for you, my friend, will never understand the agony of waiting over a year for your favourite consulting detective to return. 
> 
> But I hope you like this all the same.

It'd been two years. John had almost convinced himself that he was over it. It was nice, wasn't it, not to come home to gunshots and severed limbs and half-finished experiments all over the dinner table? Without his violin playing at all hours of the night, being kept up with things that needed to be done for a case, having to pay all the bills because  _he_ refused to get a proper job, it was peaceful, right? That should have been good. Wasn't it so irritating how John had to be the moral compass, thanking people and apologizing on  _his_  behalf, because  _he was_  too much of a child to do it himself?

John was lying to himself, he knew it. He was lying to everyone, with the stiff smile that he'd learned to put on his face for everyone, to stop them worrying so that he could go home and be as upset as he liked when he was alone. He could see it in their eyes still, the pity that made something in John's stomach  _curl_  with something. He didn't want it. He should have been stronger than that. He should have been strong enough to be able to  _get over_  his best friend being gone and-

He had to stop in the middle of washing the dishes to hold himself steady on the edge of the sink. He concentrated on that, on the steel and the coldness of it, on the water and how it was turning his hands pink because it was too hot, on the floor tiles and his socks, anything, anything other than the pain that was ripping through his chest, the pain that'd been there for a long time. It'd died down into a dull ache after about a year, but there were still moments when he forgot to not think about losing...him...and then the pain would come back suddenly, make him stop in the middle of what he was doing and just cripple him for a while.

He hadn't told his therapist about this. He hadn't told anyone. He was doing a pretty damn good job of pretending. He wanted to keep it that way. Yes, he would rather keep it that way. He tried to hold on to the vision of their pity – Mrs. Hudson and her sad eyes, the frown on Mycroft's face whenever they met, Lestrade's pauses at a slip in John's plastic smile whenever they talked- held on to it so that he could be disgusted at himself enough that the pain would just fade away under guilt and shame.

He couldn't live like this forever. He knew that, but he had to keep trying, because it wasn't as if  _he_  was going to come waltzing back into John's life like he'd never left.

There was still the doubt though. The doubt that John was missing something, something important. It had never sat right with him, this death. He could still remember standing at the grave with one last wish, one last, impossible thing.

_Don't be dead._

It was ridiculous and he knew it. This whole thing was ridiculous; why was he so hurt over one man, one man who was a complete nuisance, who left his things all over the place and hardly ever cleaned up after himself, who  _shot the walls when he got bored_ , what kind of lunatic did that?

My lunatic, John sighed, giving up on the dishes and sitting down at the table he'd just cleared. My Sherlock Holmes.

John sat for a while and just let himself think, let himself remember. The first time he met Sherlock, how he'd just  _known_  that John was a soldier, where he'd been deployed, about his limp, his sister, everything- never mind that he got the bit about Harry partially wrong- how amazing it had been. He remembered the first crime they solved together, how John had felt useless compared to the genius that Sherlock had; and yet he always wanted John around, always asked John to come with him, trusted him with everything.

Almost everything.

John  _still_ couldn't understand why Sherlock had killed himself. It didn't seem like him. He was too proud to do such a thing, unless something had happened on that rooftop-

Then there was the phone call. The call where Sherlock told him,  _lied-_ John  _knew_  it was a lie, there was no other explanation- that he was a fraud, that he'd made the whole thing up, his skills, the crimes, Moriarty, that everything was just a trick, a clever trick, and that they'd all been fooled.

 _Tell everyone_ , he'd said. Tell them all Sherlock was a fraud? John couldn't, not when he didn't even believe in it-

And the blood, there was so much of it, even though he should have expected it, he'd seen soldiers die, he'd seen friends die out on the battlefield, he'd treated men with wounds much worse than that, but this was different, how was it different? And when he'd finally broken through the crowd, there was Sherlock's body, crumpled and broken, and he'd seen him fall but he still had to check, he still had to put his fingers on Sherlock's wrist and make sure that there really was no pulse, he had to feel how cold his skin already was, and then he had to look up as they turned the body over, he had to see how the blood matted in his hair, how his eyes were still open, his lips parted, his face slack, and the blood, so  _dark_ -

John's phone beeped. Text message. He had to swallow a few times, compose himself, start the kettle for a cup of tea and drink a glass of water first, before he picked up the phone. There was still that part of him, that stupid part of him that waited for the final message that would convince him that Sherlock really was gone, but what kind of message would that be? He picked up his phone anyway, lying on the other end of the table.

He glanced at the name, and did a double take.

He was angry. Angrier than he had been in a long time. Not the same sick anger as before, the one that was mixed with grief and the agony of loss and so confusing and  _powerful_  that he almost couldn't understand it; this was fury. It had to be a joke, there was no other explanation for it, but what a terrible joke it was. Because the message was from  _Sherlock_ but that couldn't be possible.

They never did find Sherlock's phone, even though John had seen him throw it to the side before he-

John was curious enough to open the message, because as much as he hated the person who sent it, he still wanted to know. It could've been the end of him, really. He shouldn't of still been grieving like he was, and he still didn't completely get it (he did though, if he was honest with himself, which he wasn't often and he knew that was bad but he couldn't help it), but he had to know.

 _I'm sorry, John_ , it said.

It had to be a joke. A terrible, sick joke. And it had just been sent. John had gone through Sherlock's old messages, almost memorized them because they were all John had left of his best friend since he'd left the flat. He'd never been able to go back. And he knew this was a new message, but he didn't want to believe it.

And just as he was trying to get over the confusion and the fury, another text found its way into his inbox.

 _This_ is _me, John._

Now he was starting to panic. Maybe these were the hallucinations he was so afraid of. It had happened once before, back in Afghanistan, but so briefly he almost couldn't remember it. It had to be that, even when it sounded like him, like Sherlock, like he was right there, talking to him like always...

 _Open the_ door  _for me_.

John just stared. He stared and stared and stared until his eyes lost focus and the words turned into small black blurs on the larger white blur of the screen, until all he was really aware of was his heart and how fast it was beating. All he could hear was ringing and his whole body felt too heavy, but his heart, his heart was racing, panicking, hoping that this was what he was waiting for, but at the same time horribly afraid that this was all just a stupid hoax and that was all just going to end in tears.

For  _fuck_  sake. He had to move on with his life, he couldn't stay like this.

He put the phone down where he left it earlier, on the table where he didn't have to look at it again as he rolled his sleeves back up as they'd slid down his arms, and went back to the dishes. He needed something mindless and methodical to do before he sat down with that cuppa and allowed himself to think again-

There was a knock at the door.

John froze. He jumped a little too, and the water in the sink copied him. He stayed perfectly still, held his breath and listened. The moment seemed to stretch on forever, this perfect silence, punctuated only by the raucous laughter of the man next door who apparently spent his whole life watching comedy shows or else laughing at his own jokes, John didn't care, but he listened, listened harder than he ever had before, because this was important, he had to either hear something or hear nothing, but he had to be sure of it all the same. And he was just about to give up and convince himself that he couldn't let himself run away with his imagination, when he heard the knock again. It was more persistent this time, annoyed. Once. John allowed himself to breathe. Twice. He started to turn in the direction of the door. On the third time, the knock was accompanied by a voice through the letterbox.

"John, I'm not getting any younger out here."

He stumbled first, over his own stupid feet of course, but then he hurried a little faster, too fast, enough that he had to pause and brace himself by the door first before he could open it and not fall through it.

It didn't matter either way. All he saw was that familiar pale face, the dark hair and piercing eyes, and then everything sort of swam before his eyes and he crumpled on the floor.

He didn't realize it until he'd woken up, but he'd fainted.

He was on the sofa. The first thing he saw was the ceiling, and he didn't turn his head to look for Sherlock straight away because he wasn't sure he could handle that. He was still ever so slightly worried that this was all a dream. It had to be, didn't it, for something that he had wanted so badly to come true? He'd asked for Sherlock to not be dead but...he hadn't really believed himself when he'd said it, had he?

But Sherlock  _was_  there when John turned to look for him, hovering a few feet away, watching John warily. There was still that small doubt that Sherlock was just an apparition, but the longer John looked, the more he realized it wasn't. While John would always remember Sherlock's face for the rest of his life, he'd never be able to get the eyes right. There was always something about eyes that was never quite remembered well enough. And even though he'd thought about it -for hours, days, weeks, months, almost two years- he knew he hadn't remembered them right. Sure, Sherlock was thinner and paler than before, but that didn't change the fact that-

"Oh God," John said, his voice catching in his throat, "It  _is_  you."

Sherlock gave a week smile, and moved forward hesitantly. "I did tell you."

They just looked at each other for a while, really looked, taking in the things they'd missed, the changes in each other. Sherlock's frown was deeper than John's and John knew that he was seeing things that no one else had seen. Just how torn up John had been, probably more than John knew himself. He thought he'd punch Sherlock in the face- the idea had occurred to him almost immediately after the incident- but right then he couldn't find it in him to do it. It was all too overwhelming.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, and John had to look away for a minute so he wouldn't get all teary. Tears were not good. Tears were bad. Tears would be the worst way for this to start.

"Come here," John said, opening his arms for Sherlock and keeping his voice low so he didn't have to hear how hard he was trying not to cry. John wasn't a crier. He'd barely cried after Sherlock had...well, not died, obviously but...but even then, he'd had to force himself not to, because he was a soldier. He had to get over grieving as soon as possible and move on. Or at least pretend to, for everyone else's sake.

Sherlock sort of fell forwards, landed on his knees by the sofa and John held him, which he hadn't done in far too long. John couldn't even remember that last time Sherlock had even allowed hugs; the most that had ever happened was the time they'd held hands, but they'd been hand-cuffed, that hadn't meant anything. But now...

John sat up and moved over so Sherlock could sit beside him. He still felt a bit light-headed, but he could deal with that. He tried to pull back so he could see Sherlock's face again, but he kept his head stubbornly on John's shoulder.

"I don't exactly want you to see this," Sherlock said, his voice muffled by John's jumper, and John almost asked why until he heard Sherlock sniff.

 _Oh._ "Oh, Sherlock," John said, and then he was off too. It felt like this was all of the pressure from years, from having to keep pretending that he was all right for so long, for trying to fool himself that he was all right, trying to avoid anything that would remind him of Sherlock because it still hurt, trying to not cry because that was a weakness. And it went further than that too, back to the tears he never dared to shed over dead friends and bodies and blood, after all the nightmares that he had. The nightmares had only ever come back when Sherlock had gone.

John looked down at their hands, at the sleeve of Sherlock's jacket, the jacket that would always  _be_  Sherlock's. He'd seen someone wear one just like it once, a tall bloke, someone tall enough to be him, but when John really looked, the face was wrong, the hair, the eyes, and he'd been horribly ashamed of himself. Couldn't he control himself and stop thinking about someone who was supposed to be  _dead_?

But now he hesitantly brushed his fingertips against the back of Sherlock's hand, just checking again that he was real. He didn't expect it, but Sherlock turned his hand over and caught John's fingers, stretched out his hand and let John touch him. He was so thin. John had always remembered Sherlock being, well, a toothpick, but not this thin. It was unhealthy.

"I really am sorry, John," Sherlock said again, and John sighed.

"I haven't completely forgiven you," he said, yet still tracing the lines in Sherlock's palm, "But you can stop apologizing, for a start." Sherlock chuckled weakly and John smiled a little. It almost felt like a full real smile, and another little knot in John's chest unraveled a little.

There was another long silence, and then, "I've been thinking, while I've been...away," Sherlock said, speaking more carefully thank John had ever heard him. John would've cracked a joke about it, but he listened instead. Sounded important and not self-centered for once. John wanted to ask how the  _hell_  Sherlock was alive, but he'd put it aside for the time being.

"About..." Sherlock took a deep breath in, "About you. And...this, I suppose." He slipped his fingers through John's and suddenly everything in him just froze. He hadn't been expecting  _that._ He hadn't expected the hugging either, but there was a first time for everything, John thought.

John had to see Sherlock's face then, just to check that they were both totally serious, and Sherlock let him. John looked at him, really looked, and couldn't find a lie there. That didn't make him any less confused though. He didn't even know what his feelings were (well he did, but how could he admit them to anyone, when they were impossible? And John wasn't...well...that kind of man), and here was Sherlock looking at him like...glancing down at John's lips once, twice, three times, his own mouth twisting as he debated it, before he actually leaned forwards and-

It was gentle. Hardly even...it was more a second of lips brushing than...but it was still there, the movement, the affection, the slight press against John's lips and...he might have pressed back, just a little, for a split second, because it was all so confusing and this was _Sherlock_  for God sake, this wasn't...this couldn't...

"I've missed you," Sherlock said against John lips, and he could hear how scared Sherlock was. Scared of what John would say now, after this, if he would get pushed away, if John would ever forgive him for how he felt-

This was how he felt?  _This_? Was this what John wanted?

He paused.  _Well_ , he finally admitted to himself,  _Yes. Yes it was._

It was impossible and ridiculous and John hadn't  _seriously_  thought about it, but there he was, with a gentle hand on Sherlock's neck, reaching in for another uneasy, hesitant kiss, because it was all so new and  _different_ , and he couldn't really tell if he liked it or not.

But then Sherlock's lips parted and his head tilted ever so slightly and... _oh_. Well. Maybe...maybe Sherlock had an idea there. Although he had to pull back after a few seconds because his heart was  _hammering_  in a way he didn't think was exactly healthy, and he was losing air fast.

"This is what you were thinking about?" John asked, his hand still on Sherlock's neck, their lips still so close that they brushed when one of them spoke.

Sherlock nodded and pressed in again, softly, measuring. It felt like neither of them was sure what they really wanted, but John knew that Sherlock had thought about it a lot more than he had, and that Sherlock's hesitation was most likely...fear. And John had only seen him scared once; it'd looked more like his body was afraid more than his actual mind. Sherlock was usually so detached, his passion reserved for his work and his cases and his deductions that never failed to amaze John and everyone else around them.

They kissed again, another open-mouthed kiss and John and could taste coffee on Sherlock's lips. Taste. John had never expected to think that about Sherlock. And his lips. God. John's hands seemed to be partially moving on their own, curling in Sherlock's hair (softer than he expected, especially by the roots), moving around his waist, while one of Sherlock's hands rested on the side of John's face.

When they pulled back, they were both smiling, gentle, genuine smiles, the first ones it felt, in a long time. Nothing else mattered right then, for just that one second that they were in each other's arms, after the impossible, because nothing else would really compare for a while. This was something neither of them was really expecting, but who cared, because for once...for once they were happy. And the feeling John got in his chest at the thought of making Sherlock happy...he had to look away again or risk the tears. He really hoped this wasn't a thing, crying. He would've liked to never do it again actually, because it just took too much effort and he looked like shit afterwards, he was sure.

"Welcome back, Sherlock," John said, and Sherlock's eyes crinkled in that way John remembered, in a way he thought he would never see again.

Yeah...he could get used to that, actually.


End file.
